More Fragile Than You Think
by xjustxletxmexgox
Summary: AU. Lucas and Nathan have grown up, each with completely different lives. They have nothing in common... Except for the abuse they suffer at the hands of the ones who are supposed to love them. Graphic Abuse. Don't read if that bothers you.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Ok, so obviously this is a very AU world. I don't own anything, y'all should know that. There will be abuse in this story. It's not that graphic right now, but it will probably get worse. If you've read any of my other stuff, you know what I'm talking about. If not, I'll warn you, it will probably get ugly. Yee have been warned!

* * *

**More Fragile Than You Think**

**By Lucas and Nathan Scott**

Lucas

Everyone has always told me that the easiest place to start is the beginning. That if something's wrong, go back to where it went wrong, and fix it.

Well, that sounds easy enough. But what if the beginning of where everything went wrong was the second you took your first breath?

Kinda hard to fix that, huh?

But I suppose, if I'm going to get this whole story out, I should try and start with what I know of the beginning.

I was born on October sixteenth. My father had just started his college basketball career. My mother, his girlfriend, was sure that Dan –my father –would stick with her when I was born.

She was young. Innocent. Stupid.

He ditched us. Never looked back. Instead, he chose to move on with another woman. And his other son.

My mom never got over it. She started drinking. A lot.

When I was four, she left me locked in my room for the first time. A week alone while she went on a road trip. She left me eight peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and three two-gallon jugs of water that still tasted faintly like rotten milk.

On the seventh day of my mom's disappearance, my uncle Keith –Dan's brother –came looking for my mother. He found me locked in my room, unconscious, severely dehydrated and half-starved.

He told the people at the hospital that I had gotten lost in the woods.

My mother came back five days later.

When I six, she hit me for the first time. A solid back hand that sent me flying into the wall. I was unconscious for twenty minutes. When I came to, she was having sex on the couch with some random guy.

I managed to drag myself to Keith's house. He took me to another doctor. I had a mild concussion. Keith took care of me for two days, then sent me home.

When I was seven, she tied me to a chair for the first time. She left me there for two days. After I'd pissed myself twice, and begged her, cried to her for hours, she left the house.

Keith came and found me. He got me cleaned up, fed me, calmed me down. Then he left too.

* * *

When I started middle school, everybody else started talking. I was the freak, the loner, the weirdo. And my dad had abandoned me for my half-brother, who went to the same school.

I'd see him in the hallways. We usually had at least one class together.

I was the quiet, shy kid. I survived day-to-day, and that was it. I didn't have any friends, and I never fought back. I tried to avoid everyone. Just surviving was a full time job with me, and I wasn't about to add more problems to my plate.

Nathan was the complete opposite. On the days he showed up (three out of five days a week), he was angry. Bitter. He would fight anyone who got in his way, and some who didn't. I happened to be his favorite target.

I never fought back. Ever. I always sit there (or lay there, depending on how angry he was), and let him beat the shit out of me.

I couldn't explain why I let him. But I always did.

* * *

Nathan

My life sucked from the moment I could pick up a basketball. So around four years old, my life went down the tubes.

My dad was –at one point in his life –an all star basketball player. And he got it in his head that I should be too. I hated the game. I wanted to do things that other four years olds did, not focus my life on a game that I didn't even enjoy.

But my dad made me play. Every day. And every time I missed a shot, or when I could have done something better, he'd beat me until I couldn't walk. Then an hour later, I'd have to do it again. And that was my life. Eventually I started school, but the only thing that changed was now he came to my practices, and my games, and the beatings would be worse. Sometimes I'd be unconscious for hours… Once, for three days.

My mom worked out of town a lot; when she was home, she hid out in the spare bedroom. She never asked about the bruises, or the blood. She drank. Frequently. She ignored me. Frequently. She slept around. Frequently.

Only once did she take me to the hospital. And that was only because I was bleeding all over her bed. I had crawled into her bedroom after my dad had beaten me with a baseball bat, another sport I was expected to be excellent at. I was unconscious, blood pouring from my head, nose, and lips, and lying on her bed when she got home. I guess she felt that taking me to the hospital was ok, since the only other option was me making a mess, and being inconvenient.

When I started middle school, my dad's dirty little secret came out. I had an older brother. A bastard brother, one my father had had right before he hooked up with my mom.

I was already acting out long before middle school. Stealing, fighting, skipping… Having the embarrassment of a bastard brother –especially one as weird, and pathetic as Lucas Scott –only added to my constant frustration, and anger. And Lucas took the brunt of it.

I fought so much that no one thought it was odd for me to be bruised and broken. I beat on Lucas so much that no one thought it was weird for him to be bruised and broken.

But I did. I knew it was weird. I knew that while yeah, I was beating on him a lot, I wasn't hitting him that hard. He usually ducked, curled up into a ball, and then I would mainly just beat on him for show. I knew that he was getting bruises from someone other than me. And based on my own personal experience, I knew chances were good the bruises were from home.

So one day I decided to confront him about it.

* * *

Lucas

Eighth grade. My last year as a middle schooler. Beginning of second semester classes. First day back after a week vacation.

I was pretty sore. My mom had tied me to a chair and locked me in my room for three days, then beat on me with a broom handle. Things had only went downhill after that.

So when I seen Nathan coming, I tried to turn down another hall. But he was a hell of a lot faster than I was right then, and he grabbed me.

"You, me, bathrooms, now," He hissed in my ear.

I shrugged hopelessly, and followed him down the hall, and into the boys bathroom.

"Can't beat me up in front of your friends anymore?" I asked, honestly curious. He always seemed to wait for an audience most days; it was weird for him to want to be alone.

"What's goin' on with you?"

I stared at him quizzically. "Uh… I'm here, you're gonna kick my ass?"

He rolled his eyes, and hopped up onto the counter. "That's not what I meant, dumb ass."

I leaned against the stalls. "Ok, I'm confused as to what you _are _asking then."

"I know those bruises aren't all from me. Granted, they could be if I really wanted them to be, but they aren't. So the thought comes to mind… where do they come from if not from me?"

My face switched to it's typical dead-pan look. "I fall down a lot."

Nathan scoffed. "Yeah, and someday you'll whoop my ass at basketball too. Try again."

For one of the first times in my life, I found myself getting angry. "It's none of your damn business," I spat, heading towards the door.

He was up, and in front of the door in the blink of an eye. "Wrong answer. Try again," He said, his voice deadly sounding.

"Fuck you! It's none of your damn business! You stole my life, you beat the shit outta me, and know you wanna act like a concerned brother?! Bullshit!" I swore, trying to push my way past him.

Big mistake.

The second I put my hands on him, he punched me. In the gut. The exact same spot my mother had set the iron on the previous day.

I fell like a pile of bricks. Instantly.

* * *

Nathan

I watched, angry at Lucas, and angry at myself as I watched him curl into a ball, clutching at his abdomen.

It had been an automatic reaction. I hadn't even thought about it.

I sighed, and leaned down to help him up.

"Don't touch me!" He hissed, pushing himself backwards with his feet.

"Look, I'm tryin' to help y-"

"I don't need your help," He said quietly, arms clutched around his middle.

I leaned down, and -fighting him the whole way -pulled his shirt up to see how bad the damage was.

Looking back now, I almost wish I had left him alone.

A huge ass burn covered most of his torso. It looked like...

"Shit... was that from a clothes iron?" I asked, just... staring at it.

I could see tears in the corners of his eyes as he pulled his shirt back down. "Yeah. Now you know, you can go tell everyone, and I'll be the pussy who lets his own mother beat on him. Go ahead. Kick my ass. Do it!" He yelled, pulling himself up, and screaming in my face. His hands were clenched into fists.

I just stared at him, before shaking my head, and walking out.

I guess our lives weren't really that different.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Firstly, thanks to everyone who reviewed, added me to their lists, etc. I really appreciate it. Secondly, the next update for this might be a while in coming, since I've been on vacation for a week, and haven't had a time to work on anything. I really have other stories I need to update. But I will try and update as soon as possible, promise. Thanks for reading!! : )

* * *

**Lucas**

I spent the rest of the day sitting in the bathrooms. I couldn't even make myself get up. I felt pathetic, and weak, and useless, and… completely hopeless. Helpless.

I tried getting up a few times. Finally, I just gave up. What was the point? I could get up, and make a feeble attempt at doing something with school –which was something I sucked at on a good day –or I could get up, and let someone beat my ass, or I could go home and let my mother beat my ass…

Or… Or I could just sit there, in relative quiet. In the closest thing to peace that I would ever know. By myself. With everyone ignoring me. Just me, myself… and no one.

I could never figure out what was wrong with me. Was I such a bad kid that my own mother couldn't love me? Was I such a burden that she had to beat me? What was wrong with me?

Was there a reason? Or was it completely… random? Because she could? Did she think I was my father, did she think I was bad, did she think I needed it, or… did she just not think?

All these thoughts were running through my head when I heard the last bell ring, signifying that everybody else was going home to their happy families, where everything was perfect. Or, if not perfect, at least… normal.

I bit my lip slightly as I felt a tear run down the side of my face. It was the first one I had let fall all day.

Just as I went to finally swipe it away, the door opened…

And Nathan walked back in.

* * *

**Nathan**

I don't know what made me go back in the bathrooms to find Lucas. I didn't know him, didn't really even care.

Or so I told myself.

But as I walked through that door, and saw him sitting up in the windows, I could feel my stone mask crumble a little bit.

Here was someone who knew what I was going through. Who knew what it was like. Who probably wondered the same things I did, thought the same thoughts I thought, and dealt with the same things I dealt with. And to add to it… He was my brother.

I slowly –almost cautiously –walked over, and hopped up on the window sill next to him.

There were a few moments of awkward silence. Then I spoke.

"Hi."

He gave a little laugh. Not even a laugh, more like a small almost half-chuckle that would have been a laugh on anyone else. Sadly enough, I understood.

"Hi," He said back, turning to look over at me. "So what're you gonna do?"

I hesitated. "About what?"

He waved his hand around the bathroom. "This."

"This?" I asked, also pointing to the bathroom. "Or this?" I pointed to his chest.

He shrugged carelessly. "Either way. Just so you know though, it'll be worse if you say something."

I raised my eyebrows at him. "It gets worse than that?"

He glanced down, as if he could see the burn through his shirt, before looking back up at me. "Sometimes."

"Sometimes a lot, or sometimes a little?" I wasn't dumb. I knew how this game worked. A little too well. 'Sometimes' meant 'every time I turn around –this isn't actually that bad'.

"What's it matter to you?" He asked bitterly, turning to stare out the window.

"It… it just does, ok?" I snapped.

"It's ok when you do it, but not when my mom does it? Wanna explain that one to me? How exactly _does_ that work, Nathan?"

I slowly stood, and stared at him coldly. "I'm not burning you with clothes irons. And it matters because it's not that different."

I stormed out of there before he could ask me what I meant.

* * *

Obviously, I missed the bus during my conversation with Lucas. So I had to walk home. Which meant that I was almost forty minutes late for practice with my dad.

_Maybe I'll get lucky,_ I thought. _Maybe he'll be working over at the dealership_.

Yeah. Right. 'Cause you know that happened.

He was waiting out on the porch for me. My dad would have made a great preacher. I could practically see the hellfire and brimstone coming out of his eyes.

"Where were you?" He asked, his voice dead cold.

"I missed the bus. Had to walk," I replied, trying to walk around him, and get into the house. But his arm snaked out, and grabbed hold of mine in a vice-grip, making me hiss in pain.

"You're forty minutes late, Nathan."

"Yeah, I know. I had to walk." Goddammit, I wouldn't grovel in front of him, and tell him how I had practically ran the whole seventeen miles.

"How'd you miss the bus?"

I shrugged. "Was beatin' on the freak, more commonly known as your other son," I said, sarcasm dripping from my voice.

I seen stars as he backhanded me across the face. "Don't lip off to me. He is not my son. The fact that he shares your last name is only a mistake made at the hospital. He is not my son. Although, the way you've been playing, I'm tempted to wonder if maybe you aren't either," He sneered. "Now get in the house, and change into your sweat pants, and a sweatshirt. You've got two hours of running, and forty free throws to make. In a row. You miss, you start over. I catch you walking at all… well… you know what'll happen."

I felt my stomach churn. There was no way I would make it, running for two hours, in sweatpants and sweatshirts. And my free throws… I'd be lucky if I could get ten in a row.

"Dad, I –"

"Don't start, Nathan. I've had a long day, and you just wasted forty minutes of my time. I'd suggest you get going."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Sorry it took me so long to post this, but here it is... Hope you enjoy, and thanks for reading!

**Lucas**

I always walked home. My mother didn't care; hell, it was less time she had to deal with me. Not to mention the hassle of calling the bus garage, and actually setting it up.

But the only problem with that was my chores. I practically ran the café for her most days, along with cooking dinner, and keeping the house picked up.

Even walking as fast as I could (which wasn't that fast), I didn't make it home in time to have dinner ready, the laundry done, the kitchen cleaned, and be ready to walk out the door to the café.

I was struggling to get the dishes out of the cupboard when I heard the front door open. I thought maybe I'd get lucky: maybe she'd be so drunk she wouldn't care.

Yeah. Because you know that happened.

"Boy!" She screeched, storming into the kitchen. "What're you doing?!"

"T-t-trying t-to g-get the t-t-table s-s-set," I stuttered, attempting desperately to get a plate down.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

I spun around quickly. Too quickly. I scrambled to try and grab the plate before it hit the ground, but I was nowhere near fast enough. I cringed, dropping to my knees instantly, scrambling frantically to pick up the pieces.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I didn't mean it, it was an accident, mom! I'm sorry, please, mom, it was an accident, I'm sorry," I sputtered.

I flinched as her sneaker pressed down onto my hand, impaling it on a piece of glass. I cowered, trying to pull away, as she yanked my head back by my hair.

"I work hard all day long, Boy. And I come home, not only to find you haven't done your chores, but also to find you breaking my dishes. That I paid for. With my hard-earned money," She hissed, grinding her foot down harder onto my hand.

I struggled to keep the tears in, to hold them back, but it was useless.

"And now you're crying? I can't believe you," She spat, throwing my head against the cupboard, before turning away, and walking into the living room.

As soon as she was gone, I pulled my hand up, noticing the large, bloody hand print on the floor. I hesitated for a moment, before forcing myself to look at my palm.

A huge, jagged piece of glass had went clear through my hand, leaving a cut about two inches wide on my actual palm, and an inch wide on the back of my hand.

I didn't know what to do. If I removed the glass before she gave me permission, she might beat me for being rebellious. But if she didn't care, and I left it in thinking she did, she might beat me for being stupid.

I slowly slid back into a sitting position on the floor, cradling my arm to my chest, trying to ignore the throbbing pain that coursed through me. I knew I was losing blood. Knew I was losing it faster than I should be. I could feel myself growing dizzy, and knew that it was a bad thing.

I looked up as she came back into the kitchen. I started shaking as she kneeled down in front of me, careful to avoid the glass.

"Does it hurt?" She asked softly, running her hand through my hair.

I shook my head, still trembling violently. "N-n-no, m-m-m-ma'am."

"I know it does. Come on. I'll take you to the bathroom and get it all cleaned up, and bandaged. Ok? Come on, get up. That's it," She said, speaking almost as she would to a dog. I followed cautiously, always a few steps behind her as she lead me to the bathroom.

She gently sat me down on the toilet, and pulled out her first aid kit, taking my hand and tenderly holding it as she began to wrap it up in gauze.

I opened my mouth to try and talk, to tell her she'd forgotten to take the glass out, when I noticed her eyes. The cold, dark stare that sent shivers down my spine. I decided against talking; I could bandage my hand later by myself.

Almost as if she could read my mind, she started tapping the gauze in place, yanking hard to make sure it didn't move.

"You didn't really think it'd be that easy, did you, Boy?" She said mockingly. "Forgive and forget? God, you really are an idiot."

She finished tying off the tape, and pulled me up by the hair, dragging me down the hallway, and into my bedroom.

I didn't even struggle as she shoved me to my knees, and handcuffed one hand –my not injured hand –to the pipe that ran behind the rags that I slept on.

"Now, you're going to stay here until you can learn to appreciate what I let you have. And until you learn that appreciation, I think you can do without food. Maybe –if you're good –I'll bring you some water later. And I don't want you to even think about trying to get that tape off, or the glass out."

As she shut the lights off, and closed the door, I curled up into a little ball, trying to pull my rags over me without hurting my hand worse.

Then I cried.

Why?

* * *

**Nathan**

I didn't see Lucas for three days.

The next time I saw him, I was down at the River Court, watching the older kids play as I sat by the tree twenty yards away.

I was staring in amazement that these boys actually seemed to like playing. That they were having fun. No rules, no punishments, no fouls… just a fun game with friends. It was like a whole other side of basketball that I had never seen before. A side I hadn't even known existed.

I was shocked when I seen Lucas limping up to the court. He looked like hell. His face was mostly bruises, with small patches of bloody skin showing through. I couldn't see the rest of his body since it was covered in a hoodie and jeans, but judging by the way he was walking, it was as bad as his face. One of his hands had a large bandage around it.

But what shocked me more was that the older boys didn't tell him to beat it, or start teasing him like they did to me and my friends. No, it was the complete opposite. Instantly, they surrounded him, demanding explanations, asking if he was ok, and, most surprising of all, if he felt well enough to play.

Lucas shook his head sadly. I could barely hear his voice from where I was, the sound being weak, and quiet to begin with.

"Not today, guys. Sorry. I tried gettin' here for the game yesterday, but… you know…" His voice trailed off.

"It's fine, Lucas. We were more worried about you than anything else," A tall, heavy set teen said. "Don't scare us like that again."

"I'll try not to," I heard Lucas say, his voice full of misery.

One of the other guys noticed, and laid a hand softly on his shoulder. " S'alright, kid. Just go sit down for a while, take it easy. You just give us a holler if that punk over there give you any trouble. Or if you need somethin'. Clear?"

"Got it, Mikey."

I was still watching in shocked amazement as Lucas made his way over to me, his undamaged hand stuck in his pocket. He looked at me for a minute, almost as if he were asking permission, before he started walking away, shoulders hunched, face filled with a type of pain that I thought nobody else knew but me.

"Hey… Uh, Lucas," I said slowly. "You uh… you wanna sit and talk some?"

He stopped, and looked back at me suspiciously. "About what?"

"Take a seat, man. You look like you just walked out of a war zone." I watched him flinch half-way in the act of sitting. "What, that a little too close for comfort?"

He glared over at me as he moved around slowly, trying to get comfy.

"Hey man, don't give me that look. If anything, I should be givin' you that look."

"For what?!" He demanded indignantly.

"For makin' people believe that it was me givin' you all those cuts, bruises, and scars all these years."

"It's none of your damn business," He said miserably, rubbing the back of his neck slowly.

"Bull shit it isn't."

"You wanna drag my shit out, Nathan? How about you, huh? I might not get most my bruises from you, but I'd be willing to bet that most of yours aren't from you either," He snapped.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You know exactly what it means. Leave my shit, I'll leave yours."


End file.
